


Time After Time

by ladydeathfaerie



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Language, M/M, Meddling Gods, Multiple Lives, Sexual Situations, soul mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydeathfaerie/pseuds/ladydeathfaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rules were simple. They were meant to be together and they were meant to die together. For all eternity. That was what the gods had said. And so it had been for centuries. Until they accidentally broke the rules. </p>
<p>
  <i>There was no spark of recognition in his eyes when their glances met, nothing to prove that they'd been one another's soul mates over the years. Since the beginning of time, they'd found each other. Over and over again. And he remembered every one of his lives, every one of their lives together. He'd been so lonely without him. He hadn't even realized how lonely he'd been. Not until this very moment. And now it was too late. He could see Death staring him in the face, waiting for him with open arms. All he had to do was take one step forward and it would be all over. He'd be free of pain. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time After Time

**Author's Note:**

> this idea has been playing in my head for months after a single line popped up and snagged my attention. after much back and forth with [Dazzledfirestar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dazzledfirestar/pseuds/Dazzledfirestar), this is the story that came out of it. 
> 
> much love to Daz and her SO, who both helped with the construction of this first chapter. they'll more than likely help with the construction of the rest of the fic, too. thank you both so much for everything. and for putting up with me. it means a lot.

There was no spark of recognition in his eyes when their glances met, nothing to prove that they'd been one another's soul mates over the years. Since the beginning of time, they'd found each other. Over and over again. And he remembered every one of his lives, every one of their lives together. He'd been so lonely without him. He hadn't even realized how lonely he'd been. Not until this very moment. And now it was too late. He could see Death staring him in the face, waiting for him with open arms. All he had to do was take one step forward and it would be all over. He'd be free of pain. 

And free of a long, endless string of empty lives. He didn't think he was ready to give that up again. Especially not when that one good eye rested on him with all the weight of the world behind it. "Sorry, boss. The guy rabbited." He wanted to close his eyes. He was so very tired. 

Nick looked concerned. Mildly. As if the weeping wound in Phil's chest was little more than a scratch. As if this kind of injury was common place. But Phil could see the fear and uncertainty just beyond his normal cool demeanor. Phil had definitely seen that look before. A long time ago...

_"Jean-Paul! Wake up. They're coming!" John's hand on his shoulder was insistent, his voice a low hiss of sound that was filled with too many emotions. He was groggy despite the hardness of the ground under the thin pallet and the cool chill that snuck into the crumbling ruins of what must have once been a grand home. "Come on, man! Get up! The Germans are almost on top of us!"_

_Those words permeated his fuzzy brain and he was up in a moment, crouched low to the ground with one hand going for the pistol he'd put under his make-shift pillow. A glance showed him that John was busy prepping the rifle he'd taken off a corpse last night, making sure that the magazine was fully loaded with ammunition. The man glanced up at him, deep brown eyes filled with intensity and worry, before letting his gaze slide toward a window facing south._

_Jean-Paul listened intently, catching nothing more than silence for a few moments. Then the soft rustle of bodies moving through long grass caught his attention. That was followed by the low murmur of harsh German syllables as the encroaching soldiers conversed with one another. They obviously didn't know that the two of them were holed up in the ruins and maybe, if luck was on their side, the soldiers would pass them by without so much as firing a shot._

_The dark look on John's face and the efficient way he worked the weapons spread out around him suggested he was much more optimistic than his companion._

_Jean-Paul took a moment to check his pistol. It was fully loaded and only needed a target. He had no other weapon save his knife, so he tugged it from its sheath and laid it on the floor within easy reach. John looked up at him again, fingers curled loosely around the grip of his pistol. "I know you're a civilian, so fighting isn't your thing. Just follow my lead and keep your eyes on me."_

"Just stay awake. Eyes on me," Nick ordered.

Phil wished it was that easy. They both knew that Loki had gotten a good blow in. Phil was bleeding out, the warmth slowly leaving his fingers and toes as his body tried to cling desperately to what little life there was left within it. "No. I'm clocking out here."

_Jean-Paul muttered a few expletives under his breath, barely ducking in time to avoid having a bullet take the top of his head off. Damn the Germans and damn this bloody stupid war! Hiding behind a wall of rubble, dodging gun fire, was not what he'd wanted to do at the start of his day. Last night had been something of a dream, a stolen opportunity that had seemed both right and wrong. His glance stole toward the corner where John crouched, waiting for the opportunity to return a volley of fire at the Germans outside their hiding place. A rush of warmth flooded through him just staring at the man._

_Last night shouldn't have happened. He was well aware of the fact. They were two different men, from two different worlds. They were both doing a job they'd volunteered to do. They were in a dangerous situation. They could die. There never should have been sexual interaction between the two of them. A voice that reminded him very much of his old, devoutly religious grandmother sounded in his head, telling him that his carnal attraction and acts with the other man were a sin and an abomination. But another voice, one that was not so loud but still just as certain, quietly told him that sharing emotions with another soul was a beautiful thing and should not be discounted so quickly._

_It had been all whispered words and rapid, tentative brushes of hands against flesh. A hurried affair between two souls who might not live to see the morning. He couldn't quite recall what prompted it, what drew them in close to one another, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was they had shared something.... amazing with one another. He wouldn't call it beautiful because there were no emotions involved that he knew of. Had it been lust? Was it something deeper? Would they ever know? If they survived this war, it was likely they'd never see one another again. It was likely that John Miller would return to the United States, to the town he called home, and he'd find a nice young woman to marry. He'd have kids and he'd do everything he could to forget the things that had happened during the war._

_Could Jean-Paul say the same? Somehow, he didn't think he'd ever forget their encounter. Something about it felt so... right. As if it was meant to be. He'd never been one to believe in fate, but there was something between them. Some kind of bond that felt as if it had always been there. He couldn't describe it, but he was sure that it was a bond. He'd heard his mother and his grandmothers talk of such things, had heard them tell stories of couples whose love had been so strong and fierce that it had made the gods notice them. This... whatever it was that was between them felt like that. Like those stories he'd heard as a child._

_A faint crunching sound brought him out of his thoughts. John was staring at the far wall, behind Jean-Paul's shoulder, rifle loose in his grip as he waited to see what was going to come around the corner. A single motion of John's hand, skin dark under the smears of dirt and blood sticking to it, saw him dropping to the floor as quickly and as quietly as he could manage. Seconds later, the explosion of John's rifle as he fired off a round was loud. There was a muffled grunt and the sound of meat hitting the ground. Jean-Paul turned his head and found a German soldier with a hole in his chest bleeding out on the ground._

_He turned to look once more at John and saw the man was staring right at the door. "You better make yourself ready, Jean-Paul. Those Germans are getting ready to storm our shelter. I hope you know how to use that pistol of yours. If not, its been nice knowing you."_

_The words had barely left John's mouth when the shooting started. Jean-Paul scrambled to find protection and ended up ducking behind an overturned table. For a few long seconds, he got to watch John Miller be the soldier he was trained to be, all ruthless efficiency and calm action, as the man lifted one of their captured rifles and began firing at the uniforms trying to pour in through the doorway._

_There was a noise behind him that saw him turning, saw him firing without thought. The bullet hit the German in the chest and time moved both slow and fast at the same time. Jean-Paul had time to see the see blood arc outward from the wound, both in single droplets and thin streams. It looked unreal. It didn't matter that he'd seen people die before, that he'd seen them shot and killed by the enemy's bullet. This was the first time that his bullet took a life. He had time to see the surprise on the German's face, then the fear came and made him look so much younger than he already did. A second later, the boy was gone, replaced with another face. One that was older and more determined._

_Instinct took over. Time sped up. And Jean-Paul watched as man after man fell._

_The air was heavy with the smell of blood and gun powder. He swore he could feel Death hovering over his shoulder. Perhaps it waited for him. Perhaps it waited for those who had already fallen. It was a chill feeling, one that he swore he'd felt before. A thin chill traced down his spine, as if Death's bony finger was marking him. He didn't want to think about that too deeply and shifted his attention back to the gun fight going on around him._

_Confusion reigned, the room filled with explosions and shouting in English and German and French. Jean-Paul hadn't been aware of shouting anything in French, but he could feel his lips moving as he took aim and fired at the invading force. Miller had yet to give up his position despite the fact that the Germans were gaining ground. That cold finger traced his spine again. He just knew that this was the end._

_"Miller. Get out of here! I'll hold them off for you. Just leave me your pistol and some ammunition," he called out, hand reaching out to scoop up his knife. A quick throw ended with it embedded in an enemy soldier's arm._

_"You are not military, LeClair! You don't get to order me around," the man replied with a feral grin on his face. "My orders say to get you out of the hot zone and among friendlies. That's what I'm going to do."_

_"There's no use in both of us dying here. Go!"_

_"Not an option, LeClair. We leave together or not at all."_

Nick stared down at him, face grim and expression intent. "Not an option." As if he could order Phil to stay. The cold finger of Death was on his back again, a feeling he was far too familiar with. He wished he could shrug that finger off, but his body was growing cold. Unresponsive. He knew he was dying. But maybe his death would mean something here, in this time. If he could just put it into words properly.

"Its okay, boss. This was never gonna work if they didn't have something to..." Phil's breath failed him and he felt his heart straining to go on. This was it. This was the end. There was time for nothing else. No time for good byes or one last, lingering kiss. No time for the right words. And God, he wished he could find the right words. Wished he could say the right words.

_Pain ripped through him, racing like fire along his veins. He didn't really feel the blade of the knife as it tore through the flesh of his belly. Logic told him that the weapon had gone through his stomach and intestines. It was a fatal wound. Death would be slow and painful. His gaze found the face of the enemy who had struck the fatal blow in time to see it go lax. The echo of the gunshot was loud in the enclosed space. The man toppled over, his hold on his knife slipping away in a wash of fresh pain. Jean-Paul staggered a few steps before hitting the wall. Even before he was sitting on the floor, John Miller was at his side._

_"Hold on, man. You aren't gonna die on me here. Not after we fought off and killed those Germans. You're going to hang on until I can get you to a medic. Do you hear me?" There was a hitch in Miller's voice that Jean-Paul knew he'd heard before. Many times. The look on his face was wild and Jean-Paul knew that the American was seeing the same things in his head that Jean-Paul saw in his own. "You're not leaving me! Not again!"_

_Jean-Paul let his gaze slide away from the face that was familiar in more than one way, let it trail down the man's body until he saw the shining wetness on the front of his uniform. Miller was hurt. Dying. And he_ knew. For that brief moment, John Miller could see that their entire lives, and this whole moment, had been destined to happen. They'd been destined to die in some shelled out home in the French countryside together. They were always meant to die together.

Jean-Paul reached up and rested a hand against the man's cheek. His skin was a stark contrast to John's. "Je souhaite que j'aurais pu être plus comme les histoires d'amateurs français pour tu _."_

_MIller stared at him for half a second before he leaned in to rest his head against Jean-Paul's. "_ Tu étais ... Tu es incroyable. Je souhaite que nous avions eu plus de temps. Je pense que j'aurais pu tombé en amour avec tu _."_

_Jean-Paul managed a faint smile. "_ Je pense que je suis tombé en amour avec vous quand aucun de nous cherchions _." The last thing he felt was the weight of Miller's arms sliding around him. The last thing he saw was the smile on John Miller's face. And the single tear that traced a wandering path down the man's cheek._

Even as his eyes slid away from Nick's face, the world faded from focus. Yeah. Those were good words.

~*~*~*~*~

He found himself in his cramped office with no clear memory of how he'd gotten there. The events of the past several minutes were a streaming blur that made absolutely no sense to him. Last he knew, he'd been kneeling on the deck in front of Phil, trying hard not to think about the way blood poured from the wound in his chest. Trying hard not to think about what would happen if Phil died. Trying hard not to think. 

Door closed behind him, he let his head hang as he tried to learn how to breathe again. It was never easy to lose one of his agents. And it was expected to lose agents in this job. S.H.I.E.L.D. was nothing like the CIA or the FBI. Not that those agencies didn't have their share of danger. But they also dealt with very human, very mundane threats. They'd never had to try and woo Tony Stark to their side. They'd never had to face down anything like the Destroyer, a creature of metal and magic that spit fire like a modern day dragon. They'd never been forced to deal with alien gods. Or even just aliens. 

He knew, dealing with threats that no other government agency was equipped to deal with, that he'd lose people. His agents, his people, would die in the line of duty. It wasn't something that he ever got used to. It wasn't something that ever got easier for him. But he was a pragmatic man and he'd learned a long time ago, long before S.H.I.E.L.D., that it was best for him to bottle those emotions up and channel them elsewhere. Use them where they would be of most benefit. He'd written far too many letters of condolence in his long career. He'd done his duty and he'd put aside his personal feelings and he'd made a mental note to never forget those agents who had sacrificed themselves in the line of duty. They'd died protecting their country and even the world. There was no greater sacrifice.

But all of his years, all of those deaths, had done absolutely nothing to prepare him for the pain brought on by the loss of his best friend. Nothing in the world had ever readied him for Phil's death. It literally felt like there was a hole where his heart was supposed to be. It wasn't a feeling he was used to and yet... It felt entirely too familiar. Like the echoing pain found in memories of long lost loves. Nick was damn certain he didn't like that feeling at all. 

What made it all worse was that Nick was the one who had more or less sent Phil to his death.

For the first time in his life, he wanted to crawl in a hole and hide away from the world. It was a strange sensation because he'd never before run from anything. Ever. Some how, some way, it was different this time. 

Nick pushed himself away from his door and made for his desk. There was a bottle of scotch in the lower drawer. A stiff drink sounded really good right then and he found himself reaching for the handle before he'd even settled into his chair. His fingers hooked the handle and tugged it open to reveal a bottle of good scotch, only a quarter of it gone, and a pair of glasses. The sight of those glasses stayed his hand and everything hit him all over again. 

Phil was gone and would never again sit in the chair on the other side of Nick's desk. Would never again sip his own measure of the expensive liquor after a particularly bad day. Would never again be there to call Nick 'boss' and to tell him when he was being a total dick. Yawning emptiness threatened to swallow Nick whole. He pushed the drawer shut without removing the bottle, the urge to drink his problems away gone as quickly as it had come.

How the hell was he supposed to keep this agency moving forward without Phil Coulson? Phil had always been Nick's right hand man. He had been so very good with the public and capable of handling the most annoying people in the world with perfect efficiency. All one had to do was look at the way he'd handled Tony Stark. Phil had been one of Nick's best agents, both in the field and in the office. There was no way on earth that Nick would ever be able to find someone to replace Phil. He didn't even want to try.

For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of burying his face in his hands and giving in to the grief that was welling up inside of him. There were no tears. Tears felt wrong. Tears felt, in some way, inadequate to express the depth and complexity of emotions that he felt. Instead, he allowed himself to be swallowed whole by despair. Allowed the weight of the world to settle fully into his bones until he felt as old as time. It was a frighteningly familiar feeling.

Nick sat back in his chair and stared around the room. It was in complete disarray. Several of his pictures had tumbled from their places on shelves and walls, leaving splinters of broken glass to shine in the glare of the overhead lights. Papers clustered in one corner of the room. A few of his personal books were spread across the floor and looked as if they'd been tossed all over the place haphazardly. The only living thing in the room other than himself, a bonsai tree almost as old as he was, had been thrown to the ground, its dirt dumped onto the tiles without care. 

His office was a mess. Because the helicarrier was a mess. Because Loki had outsmarted them all. 

The buzz of activity came back to him in the form of tinny sounds pouring from the ear piece laying on the desk. He didn't recall removing it. Of course, he didn't recall much of anything after announcing to the crew that the medics had officially listed Phil as dead. He must have taken it out then. How much time had passed since that moment? It couldn't have been very long. No one had come beating on his office door, demanding his attention. No more than five or ten minutes. He wouldn't have much longer before someone would show up to pester him.

He picked the comm unit up with a great deal of reluctance and slowly worked it back into his ear. The line was filled with chatter, various voices yelling over one another in an effort to make themselves heard. Most of what was there involved getting the computers back up and running, cleaning up the messes made by Loki's invading force and the fight between Thor and the Hulk, and reports of Agent Barton being taken to medical after getting his ass handed to him by the Black Widow. Pride blossomed inside at the professionalism of his people as they tried to get things back to normal.

That feeling lasted for about five seconds, right up until Nick realized that there was a noticeable void in the chatter. It was blatantly obvious that Phil wasn't there. Nick had always sworn that he could _feel_ Phil's presence on the comm, that the man simply loomed large over everything he did. No matter what it was he did. And that sense of Phil was gone. Worse yet, the rest of his people could sense it and intentionally refrained from mentioning Coulson at all.

Nick sighed and stood up. It was time to go back out there and be Director Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D. for the masses. The time to be Nick, a guy who'd lost his best friend, was later. When the world was safe and vengeful gods were nothing more than a nightmare. But before vengeful gods could become nothing more than a nightmare, they first had to be dealt with. It was time to take off the kid gloves.

It was time to go kick some superhero ass. But how to do it?

As far as he was concerned, this shit wouldn't have happened if he'd been able to mold his little group of misfit heroes into a cohesive group. Sadly, there were egos to deal with - mainly Stark's - and the helpful but annoying trait of not simply following blind orders. Maybe Nick had gone about things the wrong way, and God knew that had happened before because he was only human, but the Avengers Initiative was his baby and he'd always felt it was a better idea than weapons as a deterrent. Yes, there were things he hadn't told the would be band of superheroes, but it was because those things weren't relevant to them and Nick had honestly hoped to never have to actually use option two. Option two wasn't his option and it wasn't one he felt would work in the long run. Damn the World Security Council and their attitude that guns were always the answer. 

So now it was time to clean up the WSC's mess. Seeing as Nick had had enough of their shit to last him for ten lifetimes, he was going to do it his way. Which meant making his first choice, his _only_ choice, operational. That meant convincing Stark and Rogers to see past their differences. Easier said than done. If the squabbling between them just before the attack on the helicarrier was any kind of indicator, they were going to need a reason to want to work together. Something that they could rally behind. A symbol. 

Nick had the perfect symbol. It was probably a low blow and it would no doubt come back to bite him in the ass at a later time, but it was the perfect play to motivate his reluctant heroes. It was the perfect way to convince Stark and Rogers that their time would be better spent fighting the enemies rather than fighting themselves. All he needed was something visual... 

It came to him after a moment of thought. Phil's cards. Nick knew that Phil had made an impression on Stark. There were few people on the planet that were capable of making Stark listen to them and Phil was one of them. Some of it had been plain fear. Some of it had been a grudging form of mutual respect. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Stark considered Phil one of his friends. As a man who didn't have many friends, losing one would be a hard blow. 

That tactic might not work on Rogers so well, but it was common knowledge that Phil had asked his idol to sign his Captain America training cards. And everything that Nick knew about Steven Rogers said that the man was genuinely a nice guy. He'd stated more than once that he didn't care for bullies. And it wouldn't take much to spin Phil's death into the ultimate case of bullying. Big strong guy picking on the scrawny little guy. Rogers understood that parallel. He got it. All Nick had to do was sell it the right way. 

Decision made, he tugged one of the desk's drawers open to retrieve a much worn purple bag. It was the kind of bag gamers used to hold their dice, the kind that came with bottles of Crown Royal. The purple was worn, the gold stitching faded and frayed. He'd replaced the cord holding the bag shut a time or two, as well. It had seen a lot of years and a lot of use. 

Nick undid the ties holding the bag shut and carefully pulled out the thick stack of cards. They weren't as nice as Phil's, some of the edges worn more than others. Nick couldn't even begin to explain why he had them. Captain America had never really been his hero. Not that the man wasn't heroic, because he was. He was someone to look up to. But Nick had always tended to put his faith in things he could touch and taste and smell. Up until they'd dug the man's body out of the ice, Captain America had never been real for him. And now... Well, he had bigger heroes to look up to. Phil would probably take a chunk out of Nick's ass for what he was considering doing. But Phil wasn't here anymore. And that was kind of the whole point. Wasn't it? 

Decision made, Nick tucked the bag back in the drawer and deposited the cards in the pocket of his coat. The plan was to make a stop and bloody up those cards a little bit, then find both Rogers and Stark and let them have it with both barrels. He was still certain that the Avengers Initiative was a better way to go than launching an all out assault with untested weapons that could likely do more damage than good. He just had to convince them that this was what they wanted to do. 

Nick was in the hallway when he tapped the comm unit with a finger. "Hill. Have Rogers and Stark waiting for me at the conference table. I think its time we had a little chat."

~*~*~*~*~

"I'm sorry, Phillip, but I cannot allow you to pass beyond the shadow realm." He knew that voice. He should. He'd heard it so many times before. A glance around showed him nothing but darkness. He couldn't even see his hands before his face. He couldn't recall that ever happening before, though. He'd always been able to see where he was with little trouble. It was disconcerting to literally be in the dark now. "My apologies, Phillip. Allow me to make an adjustment." 

Slowly, so slowly it was like watching the sun rise up over the horizon, light began to eat away at the darkness surrounding him. The light revealed to him the hazy outline of a river in the distance. Beyond that, he could see towering trees in brilliant greens. Faint hints of laughter and joyful music teased his ears and he could smell the sweet scent of blooming flowers and fresh mead. Well, that was a change. He'd never had the mead before. 

Finally, a figure emerged from the retreating shadows. Phil turned his attention to the man, tall and thin and pale and clad in a suit of the deepest black Phil had ever seen. The man was someone Phil was very familiar with. He inclined his head in a faint sign of respect. "Death."

"I see you remember me, Phillip. I would think that you'd forget your old foe after so many centuries," Death replied, offering Phil a smile. It was filled with genuine warmth. 

"Death is no foe," Phil replied steadily.

"No. I suppose Death is no foe to someone who doesn't not fear him. And no warrior fears Death," the other man intoned with a sheepish grin. 

"An intelligent man always fears Death," Phil said quietly. "Because Death plays no favorites and Death comes for everyone." 

His answer drew a laugh from the gaunt man, a sharp bark of laughter that seemed cold and well fitted to the empty plains spreading out beneath Phil's feet. A wave of Death's hand produced a table with two chairs and an opened umbrella. A tray rested in the center of the table, loaded down with a pair of tall tumblers and a pitcher of iced lemonade. Death motioned to the chairs with a smile on his face. "Sit with me, Phillip, and pass the time until you leave this place." 

Phil took a seat, watched as Death did the same. The two men sat opposite each other, the umbrella blocking out the bright light that shone down on them. Death busied himself with the pouring of two glasses of lemonade, absently setting one before Phil before drinking from the one he'd kept for himself. Phil considered it a moment, then lifted the glass and took a sip. The lemonade was icy cold and tart, perfect for a hot summer's day. 

"Why do we bide our time here, Death? Why have I not crossed the plains and entered the valley?" Phil motioned toward the distant horizon. Death sighed and glanced toward the valley. Phil knew it by many names, had called it many names. But it was something different to everyone, so it was easier to call it the valley.

"That is not a question I can give an answer to, Phillip," Death replied softly. It sounded as if there was a hint of regret in his voice, but it was hard to tell. Phil nodded without questioning his answer, his gaze still locked on the lush scenery off in the distance. The silence between them was occasionally broken by the clink of ice knocking against glass. Phil had a few guesses but he was going to just keep those to himself. 

Gradually, as if some giant hand was coloring them in with a pencil, shades of people began to appear around the table. They were thin and wispy, floating and drifting as if they weren't anchored to anything. They were all in pairs, generally two men who hovered a few inches off the ground though Phil saw a few women here and there. Each pair appeared to be surrounded by a mist of color. That same color speared through both parties, doubling back on itself to form what Phil suspected was the infinity symbol. 

This was familiar to him but different at the same time. He'd seen each of those couples before, men and women who were bound to one another by deep, shared emotions. Bound to one another for all time. The only difference was the last time he'd seen those couples, they'd been... more solid. Less ghostly. Touchable. Phil thought he knew why this was, thought he knew why he was stranded out here in Death's limbo playground instead of in the valley, where the dead went to spend the rest of eternity. 

_"Phillip."_ His name echoed in his head, soft and loud and echoing endlessly. It was the voice of summer rain and sweet, cool water straight from the oasis. It was the voice of passionate embraces and heated, stolen moments. It was the voice of sex and lust and love rolled up into one single note. He had to stifle a shudder upon hearing it. And he watched in awe as one of the couples solidified ever so slightly and became easier for him to see.

The halo flared a bright, royal blue as the bond snapped tighter into place. The two men turned to stare at Phillip, their faces foreign and familiar all at the same time. Phil found himself staring into dark eyes that saw everything. Dark eyes that were hard and soft at the same time. They had bodies that were physically fit, healthy and in their prime. Bodies that bore various scars that shone a pinkish-white against the olive tones of their skin.

He knew his own face, though it looked nothing like the face he wore now. He knew Nick's face, knew Nick's eyes as he stared at Phil through the eyes of a stranger. He could remember these men as if they were two men he'd met on the street only yesterday. He knew their love for one another, knew how skilled they'd been as warriors. Knew the last battled they'd fought in together. The one where they'd died together.

_Marcus' hands were soft against his skin even though they'd broken a man's neck only hours ago. His breath was hot against Phillip's cheek, against his neck as his lover pressed tender kisses against his skin, as he whispered words of love to Phillip. They had yet to clean the blood from their flesh, were only taking a few moments to celebrate their victory and reaffirm their love for one another. Marcus was heat and fire and passion to Phillip's reason and thought. It was his fiery nature that drew Phillip to Marcus, as a moth to a flame. Phillip arched into his touch, sighing out a silent invitation for Marcus to take more. Shifted his legs further apart to beg without words._

There was a loud, echoing thump that shook the land around them. The pitcher of lemonade shuddered and ice clinked noisily. The memory shattered at the noise and the faint impression Phil had of Marcus and Phillip was gone as the two souls blew away on a wind that didn't even ruffle his hair. 

When Phil looked up, Death had left and the valley was no longer visible in the distance. He didn't quite understand what was going on, but he was sure he'd find out soon enough. 

_"Quintus."_

The female voice filled his head again, sending ripples of something not entirely unpleasant coursing through his body. Another couple turned to face him. They were haloed in a pure aquamarine that rivaled the beauty of the Mediterranean. Again, the light grew brighter and shrank down around the two men. The way they were dressed suggested that they had been soldiers. If Phil had to hazard a guess, he'd say the Roman Legion. Which meant that they had been alive more than two thousand years ago.

The two of them stood side by side, but otherwise didn't touch one another. As with the last pair, these men had dark hair that was cut short. Their eyes were dark as the deepest wells, set in skin that had been kissed by the sun. Again, Phil saw his face and knew it despite the fact that it wasn't all that familiar. He could see himself so easily in Quintus' face. Just as he could see Nick in Gaius' face. 

_"If we are to die on the morrow, then I will spend this night telling you and showing you what you mean to me," his voice was deep and filled the shadows of their tent. He reached for Gaius' hand, brought it up to brush a kiss across his fingers. And then they were tumbling down onto the thick pallet of cushions skins that made up their bed. Gaius' thigh wedged itself between Quintus' legs, pressing hard against the hard length of his groin. Quintus bit back a moan and sent his hands in search of the hem of Gaius' tunic._

The thought was jarred away by a second thump. This time, it was louder and it shook the surrounding area harder than before. The pitcher of lemonade was gone, as were both glasses and the tray they'd appeared on. Phil looked around to find that the valley in the distance was little more than a sheen of haze. It reminded him of the sun hitting pollution. Quintus and Gaius faded away, leaving fewer hovering souls. 

Phil saw a couple drift by, a man and a woman that seemed oblivious to him. In the distance, they turned into a shimmer or a reflection and then faded into nothing. Something about them pulled at his memory, but it was gone before it even formed. 

_"Owen."_

Crystal clear streams and rich, lush green grass filled his vision. The voice evoked scenes of thick, tall trees and bright blue skies. There was a touch more insistence to the voice this time, as if whoever the owner was strove hard to attract his attention. Phil almost opened his mouth, but his attention was once more caught by a pair of men. 

These two looked to be peasants, simple farmers by the rough weave of their garb. One man had straw colored hair and bright blue eyes. The other man had hair black as a raven's wing and emerald green eyes that sparkled in the light. The misty aura between them was purple and, like the others, it snapped into place with the echoing name. 

Owen and his companion looked at Phil. Cedric, the other man, put his hand on Owen's shoulder. It was a simply gesture, one that was common among men. And yet it spoke volumes about their relationship, let everyone know exactly how the two men felt about each other. 

Phil could remember working the land, could remember the smell of freshly turned soil and dung stinging his nose as he planted and reaped. He could remember the feel of a pitchfork in his hands, of a sickle as he harvested his crops. He could remember watching Cedric work, could remember taking particular note of the man's muscles as they bunched and shifted under his tanned flesh. He could remember quiet nights before the hearth with a mug of small beer in his hand and Cedric at his side.

_The smell of burning wood was sharp and crisp, the woven rug beneath them thick enough to provide some comfort against the dirt floor. Cedric had striped off his tunic and sat with his chest bared to the fire light. The flames reflected gold off the man's flesh, made it look appetizing. Owen's body hungered with need. "They say the invasion will happen soon," Cedric commented, gaze lost to the shadows._

_"Rumors fly like mad. No one knows the truth of the matter anymore," Owen replied softly. Cedric's blue eyes found his face and he could see the doubt in them._

_"I have a feeling, Owen. My feelings are never wrong," he said._

_"You have a feeling," Owen commented, his voice low. "Time will tell if your feeling is right. For this evening, do you have a feeling about me?"_

_"Not a feeling, Owen. A hunger," Cedric returned. His gaze darkened. Owen smiled and set his tankard down, then moved closer to the other man. "I plan on feasting upon you this night, Owen. And when I'm done, I'll return for a second course."_

Another thudding sound broke the play of memory across his mind. When he looked, the haze of the valley in the distance was gone. There was nothing there but shadows and mist. Phil looked around and found that Cedric and Owen were gone, their ghostly selves faded into the long, long span of endless years. 

_"Clara!"_

The word had barely finished ringing in his ear when a pair of women drifted close to where he sat. He could see that they were dark-eyed beauties with long curls of dark hair. They were connected by a halo of deep red and their simple dresses suggested to him that they might be peasant women. 

Clara turned to the other woman, Isabel, and took her face between the palms of her hands. The women came together in a heated kiss filled with fiery passion. It was an echo of a kiss they'd shared once before, when they'd still been alive. 

_"They're coming for us, my love. We should flee," Isabel insisted urgently. Clara shook her head and laid a palm against the other woman's cheek._

_"We'd never make it, Isabel. They'd hunt us down like dogs and then things would go even worse for us."_

_"You would let them take us without a fight?" Isabel asked, eyes wide with disbelief._

_"Isabel. My sweet Isabel. Our time is ended. We knew this day would come. I would rather we die now, swift and painless, than be taken prisoner and tortured into giving them names of innocents. At least here, we can die in one another's embrace. God will be merciful upon our souls and we will be together in Heaven," Clara explained._

_She could see that Isabel didn't believe her. There was no time to go into a long explanation. So she reached out and took hold of Isabel's face, pulled her close and pressed a heated kiss to the woman's lips. This was a much more preferable way to die than at the hands of the torturers._

The thump that sounded this time was heavier. More intense. More jarring. Phil found himself standing on the barren ground, the table and chairs gone this time. Clara and Isabel were already little more than a memory, gone before he'd even realized they'd left. The darkness seemed to be encroaching, inching closer and closer to where he stood. He swore there was an almost desperate feel to it. Something big was about to happen.

_"Manuel Rosales!"_

The same desperate feel to the shadows closing in on him echoed in the woman's voice. Gone was her playful tone, replaced by an urgent need that battered his senses. Another pair of men stood before him. They wore breeches and long coats, broad hats resting on their heads and heavy swords hanging from their belts. There was a rough feel to them, an edge of dangerousness that was as bright as the golden aura tying them together. 

When Phil fell into memory this time, it was to find two hard bodies pressed together, skin and souls bared. They were utterly and completely lost in one another. Demetrios was pressed against a wall, his legs wrapped tightly around Manuel's waist. Their voices were low, distant murmurs lost in the sound of flesh slapping flesh. And then they were tossed off their feet, an explosion rocking the air and the floor beneath them. Shouts from above their heads said they were under attack. 

The next explosion was a loud, insistent thump that brought him back to a nearly empty plain. Nearly all of the couples were gone now, Demetrios and Manuel included, and the darkness was so close that Phil could touch it. Something was about to happen. He just knew it.

_"Jean-Paul LeClair!"_

The last remaining couple stood before him, almost completely shadowed by the darkness. The only way he knew they were there was the shining halo of olive green surrounding them. Phil knew both faces, had just recently had them in his head. And he knew the memory that came bubbling out of the darkness even before it started playing in his head. This memory was the night before their deaths, when they were still hidden away in that shelled out house. When they were still safe.

He heard the rustle of clothes, felt the brush of skin against skin. There was no rush, as if they both had all the time in the world. Each stroke sent tingles of pleasure rushing under his skin. Each whispered word of praise tightened things low in his belly. Each press forward made him ache for the real thing. And the memory seemed to play on and on, a continual loop that left him breathless and needy. 

When it shattered and fell away from him, it left him panting and ready to beg for more. John Miller and Jean-Paul LeClair were gone. The sensations of their one and only time together were gone. He was alone in the shadows and darkness. 

_"Phillip J. Coulson! Wake up!"_ the voice called out. It was filled with authority. It demanded and commanded. He heard the thump again, louder and harder. He realized that they'd been coming faster and faster between each memory. "I need you to wake up now."

Phil opened his eyes to dull, metallic surroundings. For a moment, he couldn't understand where he was or what was going on. Then a familiar face came into view and Phil knew exactly where he was. Dr. Kinson, the coroner assigned to the helicarrier, took one look at Phil and his brown eyes went wide as saucers. "Jesus fucking christ! Someone get the head of medical down here! Stat! We've got a live one!"

**Author's Note:**

> the French in this story comes from Daz. thanks for that, bb. you're a huge help!
> 
> the French used in this chapter translates out as follows:  
>  _"Je souhaite que j'aurais pu être plus comme les histoires d'amateurs français pour tu."_ \- "i wish I could have been more like the French lovers in stories for you."
> 
> _"Tu étais ... Tu es incroyable. Je souhaite que nous avions eu plus de temps. Je pense que j'aurais pu tombé en amour avec tu."_ \- "You were... You are amazing. I wish we'd had more time. I think I could have fallen in love with you."
> 
> _"Je pense que je suis tombé en amour avec vous quand aucun de nous cherchions."_ \- "I think I fell in love with you when neither of us were looking"


End file.
